


The Gift that Keeps on Giving

by dark_roast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_roast/pseuds/dark_roast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS through Episode 4x10, Heaven and Hell. The fic takes place shortly after that episode.<br/>Rated R for bad language.</p><p>When Dean finds himself in a dark place (both literally and figuratively), his late night visitors aren't good for much except being annoyingly cryptic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift that Keeps on Giving

The snow fell faster, landing in his face, in his eyes. Dean was very drunk. He knew he was drunk, because he wasn't cold, even though he was lying in a snowy field, in Pennsylvania, in the middle of the night. Or… the morning, actually. Sometime after two a.m. Whatever. He didn't care. That was all the brainpower he planned on using. He wanted to lie here and not think about anything. Become numb all over. Dean knew he was drunk, because each snowflake touching his skin felt like a chilly kiss; and lying down didn't feel like lying down. It felt like being swept upward, with stars streaking past him.

"Dean," came a voice from above.

The voice was female, which was what made Dean raise his head. His skull felt heavy. It felt extremely full. Full of fire, and full of pain. Full of darkness, which rushed to the front of his mind like murky water.

A girl stood over him. Something inside of Dean reached for her instinctively, like he was reaching for a lover or a liquor bottle. He had no clue who she was.

Really pretty, though. Small and slender. Brunette, his favorite. Her hair fell straight to her shoulders, stirred slightly by the wind. Dark eyes, skin pale as the snowy field, her cheeks and her mouth bloodless. In the middle of a winter night, she wore purple sweatpants and a black babydoll tee, with a gray tombstone printed on the front. Inscribed on the tombstone were the words, "Your Name Here." None of the big, clumpy snowflakes were actually falling _on_ her, although they fell all around her.

"Stand up," she told him.

"No thanks."

Dean fumbled one hand out of the shallow hole he'd made with his body, fingers searching for the bottle of Jim Beam. Ah, there it was. It had fallen only a few inches away, tilted at a forty-five degree angle in the snow. It hadn't even spilled. However, lifting it seemed like a great deal of effort right now. So, he didn't.

"Fine," said the girl. "Be that way."

 ***

Dean opened his eyes. He was rolled up hedgehog-tight under his blankets. Sam had insisted on turning off the goddamn heater before they'd gone to bed, saying that, since the motel room was all closed up, it would stay warm until morning. Utter, total bullshit. Dean was fucking freezing, and wide awake. He was also still drunk, which was probably why he hadn't frozen into a Deansicle.

He'd been dreaming about a girl. Standing over him, framed against black sky. Beautiful, but not his type. Even though she looked the right age, Dean had known, the way he knew in dreams sometimes, that she was actually way too old for him. The same way he could see Castiel gazing from his human vessel's eyes, immeasurably ancient and alien.

Dean lifted his head and squinted at the glowing green numbers of the clock on the nightstand between the two beds. 2:38 am. Across the room, his brother was hidden under a huge drift of blankets, softly sawing logs.

"Merry Christmas," Dean muttered.

He got up and got dressed fast, staggering only a little bit, yanking on his jeans, then his flannel shirt and his tee shirt, which were still one inside the other from when he'd pulled them off earlier. He crossed the room in his socks, pushed back the thin curtain, and peered out. He was much warmer in his clothes, but the window pane still felt like a sheet of ice against his hand. The night was deeply, deeply black. Mine shaft black. Month-old coffee black. Instead of a farm road or a parking lot, the window faced a field. A flat plain of snowy whiteness. No lights, no road, no buildings, no fences. Nothing. Starkly gorgeous and unspoiled.

Dean bent over, bracing himself on the arm of one of the saggy chairs that bookended the rickety table in front of the window. His duffle was stowed under the table. He unzipped it and rummaged for the bottle of Jim Beam he'd bought in Fredricksburg while Sam was in the gas station bathroom. He shook it. Still more than half a bottle left.

He grabbed his leather jacket off the back of the armchair, and slipped it on. He had one hand on the cold, cold doorknob of Room 23, when he realized he wasn't wearing shoes.

He grunted, went back and sat down on the edge of his bed, fumbling with boots that had shrunk two sizes since he'd taken them off. Then he realized he was trying to fit his left boot onto his right foot. He switched boots and got them on, and tied them with no more trouble.

Sam shifted and mumbled something. Then he rolled over on his side.

Dean left the motel room, closing the door softly behind him. A long swallow from the bottle chased the cold away. The air felt wet and fresh with the promise of more snow. Dean walked around the corner of the motel and headed across the field, boots crunching through the crust of ice on top of the snow.

The field was just as pretty as it had looked from the other side of the window. He still couldn't see the far end. No back road. No lights from a distant farm house. The field went on forever.

He kept walking with no particular destination in mind, mostly because there was nowhere to go. It was nice. Yeah, okay. The incredibly dismal and pathetic, drinking-alone-out-of-the-bottle-on-Christmas kind of nice. But still nice. And, hey. At least _this_ year, he and Sammy weren't getting their teeth and fingernails pulled out by Mr. and Mrs. Evil Pagan God.

Dean kept walking, his breath puffing out white around him, taking sips of bourbon to warm himself. It started to snow. Not friendly little snowflakes. Big, mean snowflakes the size of quarters, that pelted down at him. He still didn't feel cold. But he was getting tired.

He sat down. And then he lay down, breaking the ice crust, collapsing onto his back into the pillowy drift underneath. The snow muffled everything. He couldn't hear the Interstate, or the wind. It was nice, lying quiet. The bottle of JB tumbled out of his hand and into the snow, but it didn't tip over. It lay beside him, tilted at a forty-five degree angle. Dean considered making a snow angel, and decided angels were too much trouble already.

"Stand up," said an exasperated female voice from above him.

Dean lifted his head. There she was, the pretty girl from his dream. Like in his dream, he felt as if he'd known her for years.

"Dean," she said. "Get up."

"No thanks," he said.

"Don't you know me yet?"

"How 'bout a hint?"

She leaned down and extended one hand. Heavy, black hair swung forward to frame her face. "I'll tell you who I am if you stand up."

Brushing away her hand, Dean scrambled out of the snow, scooping up the bottle of bourbon. "I've never seen you before in my life."

"Not in your life, no."

She headed back in the direction of the motel, following the straggling track of Dean's footprints. Dean followed. He couldn't see the lights of the motel at all. He must have walked much farther than he realized. The girl left no footprints of her own. Dean halted.

"What are you?" he said.

She turned around. "I'm a Reaper, Dean. I'm your Reaper."

He blinked at her stupidly. The only time he'd ever run across a Reaper was in Nebraska, when Sam had taken him to see Roy LeGrange. That Reaper had been a tall, withered man in a black suit. Dean said the first thing that popped into his brain. "You're much prettier than the last Reaper I met."

"You said that before."

"Told ya, honey. I've never seen you before."

She huffed in exasperation. There was no white furl of escaping breath. She walked back to Dean, reached up, and placed her finger in the indentation between his nose and his upper lip, as if telling him to keep a secret. Dean shuddered. Her touch was colder than the night air. Something inside his head cracked opened painlessly, and the memories returned.

She'd appeared to him in the hospital after the semi had totaled the Impala. At first, she'd pretended to be Tessa, a soul trapped between life and death just like him. When he figured out what she really was, she tried to persuade him to give up, to let her take him. She almost convinced him. But, when he woke, he had no memory of her. He still had no memory of the crash. The last thing he remembered was stepping into that cabin. Which was fine. He didn't want those memories back.

And then there was February, the Tuesday when he'd died over and over and over. Each time, the last thing he remembered was the Reaper's wispy whiteness encircling him, embracing him, pulling him gently upward in the instant before the day rewound.

He remembered the Hellhounds cringing back, snarling and drooling, as she lifted him from the torn and broken shell of his body.

"You aren't supposed to know these things," she said. "That's why you don't remember."

"Can you read my mind?" Dean said.

"No. I can read your face. Come on. You're not going to die tonight."

The Reaper started walking again. Dean followed, stumbling through the gopher-holes of his own footprints.

"Wait," he said. "Wait. Hang on. I die? Tonight?"

She looked at him like he was stupid. "You don't die tonight. I just told you that."

"But, I'm _supposed_ to die tonight?"

"Yes," she said.

He looked around at the vast, empty, snowy field. Sped up to a trot. He was sobering up. His warm cocoon of drunkenness was evaporating. "How? What is it? What gets me? Is it Lilith? Does she kill Sam, too?"

The Reaper kept walking. Dean jogged awkwardly after her, his arms wrapped around him, clinging to the bottle of bourbon.

"Fine, I get it," he panted. "You're not allowed a to tell me."

"There's no rule about that," she replied. "Probably because most of the time it's obvious what kills you."

"So?" Dean said. "What happens to me? How do I die?"

"You freeze to death."

"Oh God… on Christmas? Then what happens?"

"Same thing as always, Dean. I give you a choice. Go with me, or stay here as an earthbound spirit."

Now, Dean could see the lights of the motel. The window on the corner -- his and Sam's window -- that was still dark. "Does Sammy find me? Dead for Christmas?"

"I suppose so," the Reaper said. "That's not my department."

Dean could picture that way too easily: Sam waking up on Christmas morning to find the other bed empty, Dean's stuff still strewn all over the room. The Impala still in the parking lot. Sam would flip out. He'd go searching right away. He'd… he would… Another shudder shook Dean. Sam had already buried him once. To stumble on him like that, frozen dead in a field with a bottle of bourbon beside him. What a stupid, selfish way to die. What a shitty Christmas present to give his baby brother.

Then something else occurred to him. "Before. That wasn't a dream, was it? You told me to get up, and I didn't. That means it's Christmas again."

She didn't answer. They walked around the corner of the motel to Room 23. Dean dug in his pockets for the key. It wasn't there. Maybe he'd meant to leave it behind.

He took a deep breath, drawing the freezing air deep into his lungs, and he pounded on the door. "Sam! Sammy!"

He heard his brother thump and tumble out of bed and then the door jerked open. Sam flinched, as if the cold had slapped him across the face. Dean plunged past him into the room, slamming the door. He thunked the bourbon bottle down on the table, on top of _Busty Asian Beauties_. The motel room felt deliciously, wonderfully warm compared with outside. He cranked the heater on full blast and sat down right on top of it, closing his eyes as it clunked and groaned and rattled to life, and started pouring hot air onto his ass and his legs.

"What happened?" Sam demanded. What's going on?"

Dean opened his eyes. The Reaper stood by the door. Dean pointed behind his brother. Sam spun around. Then he turned back to Dean, exasperated.

"He can't see or hear me," said the Reaper.

"Yeah, no shit," Dean said.

"Dean," Sam said more slowly. "What. Is. Going. On."

"I locked myself out." Dean's butt was getting uncomfortably hot. He stood up and rubbed it with both hands. To the Reaper, he said, "Hey… uh, can you make Sam see you?"

Sam's eyes widened in panic. "Make _what_ see me?"

Dean said, "Unless that involves his eyes burning out, or something."

"He'll be fine," replied the Reaper. "He'll see me exactly the same way you do."

Dean shrugged at his brother. "She says it's okay."

"She _who_?" Sam insisted.

"I'm not a she," the Reaper said. "I don't have a gender."

Dean ignored that, and said to Sam, "She's my Reaper."

"Somebody… gave you a Reaper? For a Christmas present?"

"No," Dean answered. "She's _my_ Reaper."

Sam's face cleared in comprehension, then clouded over again right way. "Oh." He announced to the room in general, "Uh, go ahead. I guess."

The Reaper reached up, but instead of putting her finger over Sam's lips, she passed her small, pale hand across his eyes. Sam blinked, looked down and, realizing he was in the room with a strange girl -- in his underwear -- he jumped back, grabbing his jeans from where they were draped over the luggage rack. He held them in front of his crotch like a shield.

"She's not a girl," Dean told him. "Technically." To the Reaper, he said, "What's your name, anyway?"

Not taking his eyes off the Reaper, Sam stepped quickly into his jeans, pulled them up and buttoned the fly.

"I don't have a name," she said.

"I can't just call you 'Hey, Reaper.'"

"Why not?"

Sam pulled his sweater on over his head, then patted down his staticky hair.

Dean said, "You mind if I call you Tessa?"

"I don't mind."

"Dean," Sam interrupted quietly, "Why is she here? What were you doing outside?"

"Walking," Dean said. "Just walking." He slumped down on his bed, and motioned to the armchairs. "Siddown… Tessa."

The Reaper lowered herself gingerly into the saggy, mustard-colored armchair on the right, looking like she thought it might swallow her. Sam sat down on the end of his bed, close to Dean. He looked very young, and very worried. And for the first time, he spotted the bottle of J.B. sitting on the table.

"Why didn't you just reap me?" Dean asked.

He heard Sam inhale sharply, but he didn't look at his brother. He couldn't. He was ashamed of himself, and also completely sober now.

"Because I'm tired," Tessa said. "I'm supposed to come for you once. I bring you where you're supposed to go, and then my job is done."

Sam said with a touch of sarcasm, "And you've come to get Dean… what? Four times now?"

Tessa narrowed her black eyes at him. "Three hundred and eighteen times."

Sam's mouth fell open. Nothing came out. For a change.

Dean said, "The Trickster --"

"Yeah, I _remember_," Sam cut him off harshly. "But those times didn't count. Tuesday kept starting over."

"Tuesday started over every time I _died_," Dean pointed out.

Sam propped his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands.

Tessa said, "I had to travel a long way. I almost missed you this time. You would have been trapped here."

"Where were you?" Sam asked, as if he'd figured out something Dean hadn't yet. "What took you so long?"

"I was in Hell," she replied. "Of course."

Dean stood up slowly. "Yeah. In Hell. Of course you were. I need a drink."

"Don't you think you've been doing enough drinking lately?" Sam snapped.

Dean pressed his lips together. He was on the verge of saying, _Excuse the fuck out of me for spending the last forty years being tortured._ But, he just walked into the bathroom without saying anything. Sam was pissed because he was upset, and Sam was upset because Dean was supposed to die tonight. Dean was upset about that too, so he wasn't gonna fight with his brother. Not on Christmas.

Avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Dean scooped three of the four water tumblers off the side of the sink. He heard Sam say,

"How does he die?"

"Your brother doesn't die tonight," Tessa said.

"I mean -- how is he supposed to die."

Dean set the three tumblers on the table beside the Reaper. "Don't tell him."

"Why not?" Sam's voice trembled with suppressed fury. "Because you kill yourself trying to save me again? You always have to be first in line to throw yourself on top of the grenade, don't you?"

Dean poured three glasses of bourbon. He handed Tessa a glass.

"I'm sorry," Sam said from behind him. "Christ, I'm sorry, Dean."

"S'okay, Sammy." Dean handed Sam a glass, then he sat down on the end of his bed again, with the third glass dangling between his hands. "I freeze to death. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to take a walk."

Sam stared at him, miserable, and shocked and betrayed. Dean looked away from his brother, and found himself looking at the Reaper instead.

"Time to go," she said.

***

"Wake up," Castiel said.

The clock on the nightstand informed Dean it was 2:30 am, precisely.

Castiel hadn't woken him up in the middle of the night for a while, and Dean really hadn't missed those visits. At all. Also, it was Christmas again. He sat up, shivering. The motel room had been hotter than Hell (figuratively speaking, anyway), when he and Sam had turned in for the night, but now the big metal behemoth of a heater sitting in the corner was silent, and the room was freezing. Scrubbing his eyes with one hand, Dean gathered his covers closer. On the other side of the room, Sam was a snoring lump under a mound of blankets.

Dean wanted that bottle buried at the bottom of his duffel. Badly. But Castiel stood between him and the bourbon, and the angel didn't look like he'd dropped in for a drink.

"Stop this," Castiel said. "Whatever spell, whatever ritual you've cast to cause this, you must reverse it."

"Why don't you reverse it?" Dean said.

Castiel's eyebrows drew together. "Your interfering is pointless."

"Then why are you here?" Dean threw back the covers, scooped up his jeans from where they were puddled on the floor at the side of the bed, and stepped into them. "Don't look at me. You got the wrong pointless interferer." He yanked his tee shirt and his red flannel shirt over his head, then he sat back down. "Merry Christmas, by the way. I didn't get you anything. Sorry."

"Well, it's the thought that counts," Castiel said dryly.

Dean paused with a sock in his hand. "Did you just make a joke?"

"Did I?"

"Is that angel humor?" Dean pulled on the sock. "Because it kinda sucks. Look, Sam and I didn't do this. You think I wanna be stuck in a twenty minute time loop at two a.m. on Christmas morning? In my underwear? At least when this shit happened to Sam, he got breakfast." Dean waved his other sock at Castiel. "Talk to my Reaper. It's her fault."

"Where is she?"

Dean glanced over at the clock, in time to see the digital readout blink to 2:31. He put on the sock, and picked up one of his boots. "You're too early." Dean's boot seemed to have gotten two sizes smaller since yesterday. He glanced down, and realized he was trying to put his left boot on his right foot again, so he switched feet. "Why don't you take a load off, and tell me why you pulled me out of Hell just to let me freeze to death in an empty field on Christmas, because I'm too fucking drunk to stand up. How is that part of the master plan?"

Castiel opened his mouth, then he closed it again, possibly remembering Dean had threatened to kick his ass the last time Castiel started to tell him that the Lord moved in mysterious ways. Instead Castiel sat down in the yellow-brownish armchair on the left of the table.

Tessa appeared at the door of the motel room, bringing a swirl of winter wind with her. "Who are you?"

Castiel rose to his feet. "I'm an angel of the Lord."

Tessa just looked at him. If anybody could be underwhelmed by an angel, Dean figured a Reaper would be that somebody.

Dean said, "Tessa, this is Castiel. Castiel, Tessa."

Castiel told her, "Stop this immediately."

"You've got no power over me," Tessa shot back. "Even angels die."

She was bluffing. Maybe not completely, but she probably didn't have any actual power to kill Castiel. She could only take him when his time came. Plus, Dean had been there when Old Yellow Eyes possessed Tessa, so he could save Dean's life… although the demon _had_ caught her by surprise.

"Who wants a drink?" Dean announced.

"I do," said Tessa.

Dean went into the bathroom, and scooped all four water tumblers off the side of the sink. He came back, rummaged the bottle of Jim Beam out of his duffel, and poured four shots of bourbon. Then poked Sammy in the shoulder, until his brother woke up.

Sam squinted at him sleepily. "Whuzzit wuzzamatta?"

Dean held out the glass of bourbon. "Little after two-thirty. Here. Merry Christmas."

Sam spied Castiel standing behind Dean, and immediately, Sam was wide awake. He took the glass of bourbon. "What's going on? Why is it so cold?"

"That's my fault," Tessa said, even though Sam couldn't see or hear her. "Sorry."

It wasn't entirely her fault, though. Dean said to his brother, "Because you turned the frigging heat off before we went to bed, remember? Why dontcha put another sweater on, grandma?"

Sam scowled at him, and muttered something about conserving energy, but Dean wasn't paying attention anymore.

He said, "Hey, Tessa? Do your thing, huh?"

Tessa stepped over and waved a hand in front of Sam's eyes. Sam sprang back in surprise, splashing bourbon down the front of his tee shirt.

Dean winced. "Sorry. Sam, this is Tessa. She's my Reaper."

Sam glared up at him accusingly. "Somebody gave _you_ the power of life and death for Christmas."

"I wish. No. I'm s'posed to die tonight. Apparently."

Castiel said, "Not _apparently_."

Dean turned on him. "Yeah, well… Cassie, how about you explain to Sam and me what's going on, cuz I'd really like to know, and I'm sure Sammy would, too." He crossed the room, and cranked up the heater. Following a few funereal moans from deep within, it began to vent hot air into the room.

Castiel scowled at the Reaper. "Why have you kept him from dying?"

"Because she needs a vacation," Dean said. "She's already reaped me three hundred and… and…"

"Eighteen times," Tessa supplied. She took a ladylike sip of her drink, and then sat down in the saggy armchair on the right.

Dean said to her. "That's one thing I don't get. I died seven months ago..." He was never, _ever_ going to get used to saying shit like that. "How come it took you so long to get here, anyway?"

Tessa gave him that, "I Pity You, Puny Human" look again.

"Don't look at me like I'm an idiot," Dean said.

"You're a child," she said. "You have the mind of a child."

"Explain it in small words, then."

Castiel said, "This is a waste of time."

"The time's mine to waste," replied the Reaper. She resettled herself in the chair, drawing her legs up underneath her. "It's not the time, though. It's the distance."

"But, Castiel said he pulled me right out of Hell --" Dean swept one arm up in the air. "Swish!"

"Castiel is an angel."

"So?"

"Angels have wings," Castiel said.

"And the opposite problem," Dean said, remembering how difficult it had been for Castiel to take him backward three decades.

Castiel lifted one hand in a shrug.

"I'm not coming to get you again," Tessa said. "This is your last time. Finally."

"Don't you just want to get it over with, then?" Dean said.

_"Dean,"_ Sam said.

"I told you," said Tessa.

"Yeah, yeah yeah. I don't die tonight."

"No, Dean. It's not the time. It's the distance."

***

When Dean opened his eyes at 2:38 and lifted his head, squinting across the frigid Antarctic wasteland of the motel room, Tessa was sitting in the squashy armchair on the right, reading the holiday issue of _Busty Asian Beauties_ in near-total darkness, with no difficulty.

"Hey Tessa," Dean said.

In the other bed, Sam snored obliviously. Dean wished him good dreams. Visions of blond twins, each with a pair of enormous sugarplums.

"Hi Dean," said Tessa.

"Can you turn on the heater?"

"Of course." She reached over and clicked the knob, and the heater rattled to life.

Dean sat up. "Sorry I've given you so much trouble."

"You would say that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You always think of yourself last."

A knot of heat swelled in Dean's throat. "Not always."

Tessa tossed the skin mag on the nightstand. "Dean, you know it wasn't the pain. It was the moment you let go of hope. That was the moment you said yes to Alastair."

His hands clenched in the blankets. "Can't we talk about something else? How's the vacation going? You could work a little harder on the tan."

"Whether it took thirty years, or three centuries, Hell would have broken you," Tessa told him. "Hell breaks everyone. And all those souls you tortured… they would have been tortured anyway."

Dean looked up at her, horrified. "That doesn't make it right. That doesn't make me feel any better!"

In the bed on the other side of the room, Sam shifted, and mumbled something. Dean glanced over, but his brother just rolled on his side and slid deeper into sleep.

Tessa said, "If it did make you feel better, then you belong in Hell. I doubt Alastair ever knew you made a difference to those you tortured."

"Oh, he knew I made a difference," Dean said bitterly. "He told me I showed a lot of promise."

Tessa shook her head. "A compassionate heart in Hell? That's as rare as… as…"

"A cold beer?" Dean suggested.

The Reaper smiled.

"But I belong in Hell anyway, don't I?" said Dean. "Eventually, your vacation's gonna be over." He stood up quickly. "Speaking of booze…" He grabbed his duffel from beside the arm chair, rummaged in the bottom, and pulled out the bottle of bourbon. He spun off the cap, and handed the bottle to Tessa. "Ladies first."

"I told you. I'm not a lady."

"Really?" Dean said. "Because I can totally see down your top from here."

"Do you know why suicide is worse than murder?" she asked.

Dean sighed. Tessa handed back the bottle.

"The worst sin isn't destroying yourself. It isn't throwing away the gift of your life. It's despair."

"Tessa," he said. "I can't. I can't help myself. I can't forget the things I did."

The Reaper just looked up at him, her big dark eyes enigmatic.

"It's a done deal anyway," Dean said.

"Is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"You sound like Castiel."

"Oh, thanks a lot." Dean started to take a drink. Then hesitated. "This is gonna sound weird, but… having you come and pick me up every single time -- all three hundred and eighteen times -- that's… it's kinda comforting, in a way." He raised the bottle to her in salute. "You got a supervisor I can talk to? Maybe to get you an award for Employee of the Eternity? Or a really good parking space?"

"You can do something for me."

"Not go to Hell again?"

"Goodnight, Dean," she said.

***

"What's the point of this?" Castiel said.

Tessa replied, "Distracting humans from contemplating their own mortality."

Dean pushed himself up on one elbow. Tessa sat in the armchair on the right, the one he'd already come to think of as "her" armchair. Immediately, she saw Dean was awake, and without being asked this time, she leaned over and turned on the heater.

In the armchair on the left sat Castiel. The two of them had already found and opened Dean's bottle of Jim Beam, and this time it was Castiel who had Dean's copy of _Busty Asian Beauties_. He held it sideways, studying the centerfold.

"Shame on you," Dean said.

Castiel lowered the magazine, looking at Dean like he didn't have any idea what Dean was talking about.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," said Tessa. This time it was gray sweatpants, and a black tank top with a metallic silver ankh printed on the front.

"Merry Christmas," Dean replied. "Why don't I wake up Sam? We got enough people to play bridge."

"Is this really how you want to spend eternity?" said Castiel.

"I'd prefer someplace with free Skinemax," Dean said, "But this isn't bad. I'll tell you what I really want, though, Castiel. I want you to tell me why you pulled me out of Hell."

"It doesn't matter," Castiel said. "Once the Reaper lets you go, you won't remember any of this." Castiel frowned at Tessa, adding, "There's no lesson to be learned here."

Tessa gave him a bitchface worthy of Sam. Dean touched the indentation over his upper lip.

"I want to know," Dean said. "I deserve to know."

Castiel sighed, closed _Busty Asian Beauties_, and laid the magazine gently on the table. He said, "You know our time is running out. With every seal Lilith opens, we have one less chance to stop her from freeing Lucifer. Your brother can help us. I don't want to use Sam, but I don't think I have a choice anymore."

"Because of Sam's demon blood?" Dean asked. "You'd rather not dirty your hands, is that it?"

"Sometimes, fighting fire with fire works," Castiel replied. "Sometimes, all it does is create a bigger fire." He paused, and turned his tumbler half full of bourbon around in his fingers. "This demon of Sam's, this…"

"Ruby," Dean said.

"Ruby. She's teaching Sam to squeeze out his power one drop at a time. Only enough to exorcise one minor demon at a time. Lucifer will crush him."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"I thought Lilith made a fatal mistake, sending you to Hell," Castiel said. "I thought seeing you torn apart by Hellhounds would be enough to awaken Sam. It wasn't. He was still afraid."

Dean's heart began to pound faster. Suddenly, his pulse sounded like it was roaring in his ears. But he could still hear Castiel's voice perfectly.

"If I take your life... if Lilith takes it, or if it's taken by some monster or some minor god, all your death will accomplish is to strengthen Sam's will to fight. As a Hunter. As a human. But, if you take your own life…"

"So, that's the reason you saved me." Dean's voice came out low and ragged with rage. "Because I'm the red button. And Sam is the hundred megaton nuke."

"Yes," Castiel said.

"Fuck you," Dean said. "God damn you, Castiel."

He snatched his jeans and his flannel shirt off the floor, stuck his feet in the leg holes and stood up, yanking on the jeans and fastening his fly. His hands shook. He'd done so many things in Hell. Committed countless acts of cruelty, but this… Castiel would not even smudge a feather. Dean himself would drop the hammer. His death would break his little brother's will, break his heart, and free the demon inside of him.

Despair. The worst sin of them all.

"Where are you going?" Tessa said.

Dean froze.

"Nowhere." He sat down again, slowly. Broiling hot, and sick to his stomach. "I'm not going anywhere." He turned to Castiel. "There has to be some other way. Please. We'll find another way."

"There's no other way now," Castiel replied. "It's too late. I'm sorry, Dean."

"No you're not."

To hell with them both, Dean though. He was getting really fucking fed up with one or the other of them always sticking a white light tentacle up his ass like he was a Japanese school girl, and puppeting him all over some stupid fucking game board he couldn't even see. But, he was stuck with both of them in Tessa's stupid fucking time-loop, for however long the Reaper felt like holding him here. If the despair and the booze didn't kill him, he just might shoot himself out of sheer frustration. 

***

It was Dean's fault, really. Sam wanted to turn off the heater before they went to sleep. To conserve energy, he said. Dean accused him of being a sixty year-old woman. Why the hell did anybody need to worry about running out of energy or bringing their own bags to the supermarket, when Lucifer and Lilith would destroy all of humanity long before global warming ever got the chance, and there was nothing The Brothers Winchester could do about it anyway, so why should they freeze to death on Christmas Eve?

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but then he laughed instead. _Know what?_ he said. _You're right._

_Of course I'm right,_ Dean said.

And they left the heater going full blast.

All the nights Dean dreamed about torture and horror and the fires of Hell -- and that was pretty much every night since he'd gotten back three months ago -- the one night that he was dying of heatstroke under his blankets, wrapped up in sweaty-wet sheets and stone sober -- this one night, the dreams didn't come. He didn't remember any dreams at all.

Across the room, Sammy was sound asleep, sprawled on the bed, one long leg dangling out from under his blankets. He was snoring softly. Dean rolled over and shoved off his covers, squinting at the green clock on the nightstand. It read 2:38 am. He was thirsty. Incredibly thirsty. He could definitely go for a cold beer or eight.

He padded into the bathroom and got himself a glass of water, and then got himself two more, and then he filled the glass again. He came back out, crossed the room to the window, and pushed aside the curtain. The frost-laced windowpane felt wonderfully icy against his fingers. Dean looked out on a field of sparkling white.

He could guess what lay under the snow. Bumpy, hard-packed dirt where nothing ever grew except scrubby weeds. Crumpled beer cans and cigarette butts. Bits of paper flung this way and that by every gust of wind, until the snow laid them down at last, and buried them. He wanted to walk out there. Stand in the middle of that pure, virgin whiteness with his face upturned and the snow falling all around him.

Dean pulled his clothes on. He stamped his feet into his boots and bent over to lace them. On the other side of the room, the covers rustled and Sam emerged, blinking sleepily, his hair sticking up.

"Oh my _God_," Sam gasped, and threw off his blankets. Then he noticed Dean had all his clothes on. "What's going on? Where are you going?"

"I'm going outside," Dean said. "For a walk."

Sam stared incredulously. "But it's freezing."

"Exactly." Dean stood up. He snagged his leather jacket off the back of one of the fugtastic yellow-brown armchairs.

"Want some company?" Sam asked.

"Sure."

Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up. As Dean shrugged into his jacket, his brother glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

"I thought last year's Christmas would be our last Christmas ever." Sam's voice was soft. Hushed and awed. "I really did."

"Me too," Dean replied.

Sam looked up at him. Uncountable, the things unspoken that filled his eyes, and then filled the silence.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," Sam said at last.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

***


End file.
